


Special costs more

by Bathilda



Series: Special costs more [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Greg Lestrade, a copper in training, works undercover to catch a serial killer who is murdering prostitutes and drives a black posh car. Mycroft Holmes sees a young beautiful hustler and cannot help but ask the driver to stop the car...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Особенное стоит дороже](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/113305) by Baiba. 



> Author: Baiba  
> Co-author: Rama-ya-na  
> Permission for translation: granted
> 
> Many thanks to a wonderful MinMu who beta'ed the fic and now it's even better than it was before)))

**Special costs more**

** Part one **

The car stopped at the intersection, waiting for the change of lights. Mycroft, who was mentally drafting a plan for a meeting with a minister, cast an indifferent glance at passers-by through a tinted window, and his gaze unwittingly lingered on a young man, leaning against a lamppost. He was no older than twenty. His slim fit jeans did nothing to hide shapely legs, and rolled up shirt sleeves revealed muscular arms. He was very handsome and wore a guileless look on his face. The boy’s profession was evident, since his pose was too immodest for a student having a smoke or someone waiting for a date. The question was why was he freezing on a street, when he could be a star in any elite London brothel even if he had only one of his advantages: either good looks or innocence? The latter was of more value because it was harder to find and was very tempting to those who had lost their own long ago.

Another blast of wind swirled an armful of yellow leaves in the air, and the boy tried to warm his hand with his breath and energetically rubbed his shoulders. Dancing on the spot, he glanced around with a guilty expression, most likely afraid to be seen by his pimp, and then stilled with an angry look.

"Will he leave or not?" wondered Mycroft who enjoyed this little performance.

The boy decided to stay. He once again leaned against the lamppost and arched his back with a seducing look on his face: he made pouty lips and round eyes. Neither his pose nor expression could be seen as sexual and attractive, but, apparently, this novice hustler didn’t understand that.

"This isn’t a place for you," thought Mycroft, watching the change of expressions on boy’s face, each funnier than the other. "How long will you keep your innocence and youth if you stay here? The street breaks people very fast, devours and absorbs them. Very soon you will become one more bleak face among thousands of others, one more prostitute from the slums without a future or any wish to change his present."

The car started to move, and Mycroft said quickly, "Stop!"

The car halted right next to the boy who smiled at the potential client behind the tinted glass with fleeting fear in his eyes. His artificial smile was downright pathetic, and Mycroft sighed.

Youth held many temptations and dangers. It was also proud, stubborn and made many mistakes. At best. At worst it left many scars.

Mycroft suddenly thought about Sherlock. Someday he would find the right words and arguments for his brother, but at the moment he could do that for someone else.

Mycroft opened the door and beckoned the boy.

* * *

"God, what am I doing here?" Greg asked mentally. He shivered and breathed at his hands, trying to warm them.

Tonight was his worst nightmare.

A fortnight ago he was summoned to the Headmaster of the College of Policing where a detective-inspector from Scotland-Yard made a long speech about honor, duty and the trust they were putting in Greg. He also spoke about Greg’s future prospects, namely an opportunity to work in London after graduation. The speech ended with "People’s lives depend on you, son. Your mother would be proud." Then Greg agreed to some shit he hadn’t quite understood at the time.

Throughout the last hour he was harassed four times. He was flirted with and groped.Someone tried to find out if his butt was as firm as it looked and get into his pants. Moreover the police officers, who were covering him, made stupid jokes and teased him while arresting another client.

Greg jumped a bit to fight the cold, as he started to shiver. His earpiece clicked, reminding him to be careful and stay in character.

Greg wished he could turn and leave, just send it all to hell. Unfortunately it was impossible.

"I’m a professional. My duty requires me to finish this mission because lives of London whores depend on me," he said mentally almost without sarcasm. He stood in a seductive pose he had been rehearsing all day, presenting bait for a serial: his ass, which was covered with jeans a couple of sizes too small.

"I’m wondering at what point mum would stop being proud of me?"

He had no time to think it over because of the posh black car which pulled over next to him. A serial killer who had been terrorizing London outskirts for the last six months had a similar car. Through the hammering beat of his heart Greg heard in his earpiece an encouraging voice of one of the detectives: "Be natural. We’re already checking the plate".

"He doesn’t kill immediately," Greg remembered details of this case. "He tortures his victims for three days."

In theory the higher-ups’ plan was simple and logical as were Greg’s instructions. He had been provided with an earpiece. Police officers and detectives were supposed to watch him, follow him if he got into the client’s car and make an arrest if necessary. The worst thing that could happen to him was to be sedated with a harmless drug.

"I won’t fail." He smiled resolutely and looked at the car’s window. One of the doors opened, and a hand beckoned him inside.

* * *

Mycroft smiled at the nervous boy, trying to seem as nice as possible, and nodded invitingly. When the boy closed the door, Mycroft signaled his driver to move on.

"What is your name?"

"Paul"

‘Show me your arms, Paul."

The young man was puzzled at this request. Mycroft took his hand, brought it to the light, and ran his finger along his arm, from his wrist to the crease of his elbow. The boy’s skin was smooth and ice-cold. Mycroft checked his other arm and made sure that it was also clean.

"You are cold."

He started unbuttoning his coat and noticed that Paul swallowed convulsively. Why was he so panicked? Mycroft stifled a desire to roll his eyes. He handed his coat to Paul and chastised him mildly, "Had you put your jacket on, you would not have looked any less attractive."

Paul didn’t seem to understand what to do with the coat, and Mycroft had to take it back and cover the boy with it, carefully tucking him in. There were no drafts in the warm car, but still… Mycroft simply couldn’t deny himself this little pleasure.

"I invite you to spend the night with me.”

"Twenty quid for a blowjob, fifty for…”

Mycroft wasn’t accustomed to such crudity and cringed.

"If you want something special, it costs more," added Paul.

"Money is not the problem."

Paul looked at the window with anguish, clearly wishing to run away.

"I don’t want to let you go back there," said Mycroft.

Paul got his hand free from under the coat, gracelessly scratched his ear and muttered something plaintively.

This time Mycroft couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

"You are in no danger, and I am not interested in sex with you. Neither simple, nor special. You are free to go if you wish, but it will be the biggest mistake of your life if you do so."

Paul glanced at him incredulously and sighed.

"I wish I could."

"It seems that you are deep in trouble," thought Mycroft sympathetically and said out loud, "I can offer a better way out. You will not regret it."

"I have no doubt."

"That is right. Trust me," with these words Mycroft patted Paul on his knee.

Paul shuddered, and his leg jerked throwing off Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft only shook his head. What was Paul thinking when he decided to choose this path? It was definitely not his calling. Working in McDonalds would be better for him. He started to have serious concerns about Paul’s judgment.

But still, there was something pleasantly different in this situation: It had been a long time since Mycroft had been feared for such a reason. In his case to be viewed as a ravisher of young virgins was a compliment of sorts. He laughed softly, and Paul sank deeper into the seat.

"I am sorry," said Mycroft, whose amusement instantly vanished, and added bitterly, "Indeed I can only scare children."

* * *

Greg couldn’t understand what was going on. According to their plan he was supposed to keep constant communication with his support team, but now his earpiece was eerily silent.

Greg was in the car with a definite serial killer who had noble manners and a mild smile and some kind of hand fetish. Greg wasn’t told what the killer was doing to the victims’ hands, but his vivid imagination provided him a couple of ideas. 

"Flee while you still can," screamed Greg’s instincts, and he started to plan how to get out of this situation.

When he heard the man’s words "I don’t want to let you go back there," he murmured, "Oh, shit," and pulled the collar of the coat higher so that he could discreetly tap his earpiece and check it. Had they fallen asleep or what?

* * *

When the car stopped smoothly at the mansion, the driver opened the door for Mycroft and his guest with an impassive look on his face, and left as soon as they stepped out.

When they entered the house Mycroft, asked Paul who was looking around, "Are you hungry?"

Paul was still nervous, and Mycroft was afraid to set off another bout of panic. It was important for him to finish this story with a happy-ending he imagined.

"Can I use your bathroom?"

"Of course. First hall on the left, you should have no problems finding it. Meanwhile I will cook us dinner. Also…" Mycroft looked meaningfully at Paul and continued, "if you are planning to strip in the bathroom and show up in front of me naked, I ask you not to. Your visit will be paid regardless."

"Can I make a call?"

"Yes, of course," Mycroft should have guessed that Paul was supposed to call his pimp and inform him of his whereabouts. "Take this phone."

"I have my own."

"Your phone has no service here. It is a necessary precaution due to the nature of my job."

"It’s like a spy movie," Paul said skeptically, turning the phone over in his hands.

"Must be."

* * *

To set the table was a pleasant task. Mycroft liked to be an attentive host to his guests, liked treating them with delicious food and quality tea. It was one of his little quirks that he could actually afford, even if sometimes he had to wait on those guests whom he paid for their visit. Besides he had had no other type of guests for a long time, since all of his acquaintances were dependent on or owed him and therefore fit into this category.

Mycroft lit the candles and stepped back a bit to admire his work – the table was laid perfectly. Suddenly he heard a burst of loud laughter from the bathroom. It seemed that Paul finally had lost his nerve. It was high time to resort to drastic measures to make him relax. Mycroft reached for the bottle of wine, but changed his mind and took the brandy.

* * *

Greg entered the bathroom, closed the door and sat on the closed lid. He shouldn’t have told this man about the call, but he was so wired that he wished this whole situation would be resolved at least somehow, the sooner the better. Greg took out his earpiece, tore off a now useless microphone which was attached to his chest and scratched skin itchy from duct-tape. 

Then he put his dead equipment into his pocket and dialed the contact number of the detective who had recruited him for this mission. 

He answered immediately.

"It’s me, Greg."

"He is not our guy."

Grey sighed in relief which didn’t last long because he heard another detective’s voice in the background.

"He is worse, dammit, much worse! Hell, we’re in deep shit!"

Greg’s phone slipped from his hand and would have drowned in the toilet had the lid not been closed.

"What’s going on?" Greg asked when he picked up the phone.

"Just keep calm, all right? See… the man you are with… he’s a big boss up top. Very, very big."

The same voice in the background shouted, "Couldn’t you find some less pretty lad? God, he managed hook a man who must not be named!"

Greg giggled nervously imagining Voldemort picking up male hookers on the street.

"So, you know..." said familiar voice, "Here is the thing… you’d better hold your tongue about the investigation or you can say goodbye to your career before it has even started. You’ll have to play your part to the end."

"What do you mean?"

The long suspicious silence was his answer.

"What do you mean?" repeated Greg.

"A police officer’s job is not always what everyone imagines. Sometimes we have to give up some principles."

"Tell him! Tell him everything!" squeaked the second detective.

Greg thought that these two probably made an excellent "bad cop – good cop" team. The good one sighed.

"Let me give you some advice: if you still wish to work in Scotland-Yard you’ll have to be more… flexible tonight. So that your dream can come true. Good luck."

The line went dead, and bewildered Greg repeated the detective’s words, "More flexible…" When he realized the full meaning of them, he burst into laughter. Soon the door of the bathroom opened, and he-who-must-not-be-named appeared in the doorway holding a glass and a decanter. He poured a generous amount of some alcohol into the glass, put the decanter on the floor, then cupped his hand around Greg’s nape and put the glass to his lips. Greg stated laughing once again, and his teeth chattered against the glass.

"Drink," followed the command. "And if you suspect that I am trying to get you drunk or poison you, I’ll slap you to bring you to your senses."

Greg believed that the man would do exactly that and took a gulp of brandy.

"Good boy," the man’s voice again had become mild and affectionate. 

A hand on Greg’s nape ruffled his hair and then smoothed it down.

"How did you know what I was thinking? I mean, about my suspicions?"

"By the look on your face. It could easily be read."

"What else can you read on my face?"

The man narrowed his eyes and studied him closely.

"The street is not a place for you, and I don’t like it when something or someone is out of place."

With his thumb he swept a drop of brandy from Greg’s lips. Greg tried to lick it, but instead of his lips, he licked the stranger’s finger. He blushed, embarrassed, decided that he had made a complete fool of himself and blushed even more.

"You are too good for this job. By the way, my name is Mycroft."

"Is that a real name? Not everyone would tell his real name to a stranger he picked on a street…"

"…and call himself Paul, for example? I don’t see the point in lying and cannot imagine how you could use my name against me."

"So, Mycroft then?"

Mycroft nodded and said, "I promise not to use yours against you."

Greg fidgeted, but said, "I’m Greg… Gregory."

"Beautiful name, just like you are. I heated up dinner, so why don’t we go and eat?"

"And then what?"

"Alas, nothing that you are so worried about. Although if you wish to share, you can tell me why you decided to work on the streets. Let’s go. The food is getting cold."


	2. Part 2

** Part two **

Gregory stubbornly refused to talk about the reasons which had led him to the streets. Was he ashamed? Or just didn’t trust Mycroft? That was more than possible. But Mycroft didn’t intend to capitulate. It was against his principles to give up and not finish what he had started. He just had to find a new approach to this task. He should gain the boy’s trust in an unobtrusive way, show him his sympathy and good intents.

After dinner they moved to the library which was more suitable for an intimate talk. Gregory was not the only one who needed to relax; Mycroft had had a difficult week and now comfortably sat back in his chair and stretched his legs.

The crackling fire made the room warm and cozy, and brandy filled him with warmth from the inside. It was everything that one could ever need to be completely happy and content. Well, except, maybe for company. Gregory, when he stopped being afraid of him, turned out to be very pleasant company. He had an interesting and fresh thoughts and opinions on many things and could express them intelligibly and intelligently, without banalities.

Eventually all possible topics for small talk were exhausted and pauses in the conversation grew longer, but Mycroft wasn’t willing to get rid of his guest. Instead he was savouring his brandy, sipping it leisurely, and studying Gregory.

Gregory in turn was casting quick looks at his host, clearly believing that they went unnoticed, for his eyes were concealed by his long fringe. But Mycroft could see dancing flames of gold fire reflected in his brown eyes, which captivated him just like Gregory’s smile. He smiled a lot, often without any cause, not like in the street where he made ridiculous faces and smiled artificially to attract clients.

It got too hot in the library, and Mycroft unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt and kept on talking about the weather.

Gregory was sitting in a chair with his legs folded under him and from time to time he was moving his toes clad in sock with pictures of the Starship Enterprise. Mycroft recognized it because he had watched this series, about thirty years ago or so. He didn’t think that Gregory watched that version. They most likely had made a modern remake with impressive special effects, new and shiny compared to the series Mycroft remembered.

It suddenly struck Mycroft that he was mentally grumbling like an old man, so he stopped his complaining about the damp and cold British autumn and rose from his chair in annoyance.

"Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative," Mycroft quoted and bent to strike the fire with a poker.

* * *

When Mycroft looked tellingly at his socks, embarrassed Greg wished the earth would swallow him right now. It was an incredibly stupid situation, but how could he know in the morning that he would have to pull off his shoes in front of someone?!

Meanwhile Mycroft poured himself more brandy and run his finger along the rim of the glass with a thoughtful look. He no longer scared Greg, but rather aroused his curiosity, and was attracting him like everything singular and special. What Mycroft was thinking about? Surely not still about Greg’s socks. It could have been be worse had he seen his underpants. If Greg had taken off his jeans…

He imagined Mycroft’s reaction to his bright blue briefs with Superman’s "S" in the front and chuckled. Most probably Mycroft would have been surprised and patronizing. Then Greg imagined himself, red and embarrassed, standing only in his socks and briefs in front of elegant and untouchable Mycroft, clad in a posh silk robe…

He shook his head, chasing away this picture. Rubbish thoughts! But this vision refused to go away, and imaginary Gregory, bewildered by his own audacity, stopped blushing and trying to flee, came to Mycroft and untied his robe with one swift move. Imaginary Mycroft was no longer scornful, and he held out is hand and…

Damn! This was all that detective’s fault. What made him think that Mycroft would be interested in a prostitute? "Be flexible…"Oh, yeah, right! Even if Greg arched like a rainbow or stood on his head Mycroft wouldn’t be interested in him.

"Wouldn’t pose a threat, I mean," Greg said mentally.

"Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative," Mycroft said and bent, giving Gregory a chance to ogle his ass in grey trousers.

"Talking with Oscar Wilde about the weather? Yeah, no imagination at all," Greg noted still engrossed in his thoughts and flinched, biting his tongue. Dammit!

Mycroft turned around abruptly and stared at him with an intense look.

"Hmm, that is curious," he said finally. "But I suggest that we discuss English classic literature and authors next time. Right now I am more interested in your reasons to choose this profession."

Greg bit his lip, searching for a suitable answer. Would Mycroft leave him alone if he showed that he had no wish to discuss it? He glanced at Mycroft and decided that no, he wouldn’t give up. Which lie then? That Greg’s mother is seriously ill, and he needed money for expensive treatment? Or that he was trying to earn some money for his little sister’s education? The situation in itself was bad enough, and Greg didn’t want to make a martyr of himself. No, it would be better to appear to a fool or a moron with no principles who didn’t care who he shagged in dirty alleys.

"I gambled a big sum of money and have to return it as soon as possible."

It was a common story, easy to believe in, and Gregory didn’t have to make up any tearjerking details.

"You were going to earn enough money doing blowjobs for twenty pounds?"

"Well…" drawled Greg and fell silent.

Okay, so he would be a fool. Today he was used to it.

"How much do you owe?"

"Why does it matter?" he asked suspiciously.

That was all he needed – Mycroft giving him money! What would he do with it?

"I told you that money is not the problem for me, and I have doubts that your ‘big sum of money’ will seem big for me."

"Ten thousand!" blurted Greg and mentally crowed at this bright idea.

After this any sensible person would show him the door, and that would be the right thing to do.

"How many clients a day were you planning to serve, considering that you have to pay your debt as soon as possible?" wondered Mycroft with raised eyebrows. "And why did you choose this way and not, for example, try to rob a bank?"

Greg divided ten thousands by twenty quid and almost physically felt that his jaws cramped. Thank God it was not a real story and he didn’t have to do that!

"Wait for me here," Mycroft said and rose from his chair.

"Sorry?" Greg certainly wasn’t expecting this and was already preparing to leave. He jumped to his feet, but lost his balance and almost fell. "You aren’t serious, are you?"

"I told you that I would help. I only hope that it will be a good lesson for you."

Greg nervously giggled, and Mycroft misunderstood his reaction and patted him on the shoulder. He said, "Now everything is going to be fine."

"Mycroft!"

Suddenly they heard loud voice, and saw a tall disgruntled guy about Greg’s age standing in the doorway.

Behind him loomed a man in a suit who looked like a security officer.

"I’m sorry, Mister Holmes," he said, "I told him you had a guest…"

"Everything is fine, James."

‘"I didn’t ask to be dragged here," answered the uninvited guest and crossed his arms with a defiant look.

"What now?" there was no surprise in Mycroft’s voice.

"Breaking into an ATM, Mister Holmes."

Mycroft nodded and dismissed James.

The guy turned his attention to Greg, looked at him curiously and, as though he came to some conclusion, derisively curled his lips. 

"Hello," said Greg hesitantly.

The stranger didn’t deign to answer, poured himself a brandy, and sat in Mycroft’s chair, crossing his legs.

"You were not invited to join us," Mycroft said.

"Give me money, and I’ll leave."

"I am not going to sponsor and encourage your lifestyle."

"Is his lifestyle a better investment?" The guy pointed at Greg. "Isn’t there anyone willing to spend night with you for free? Though I assume that no one ever did that."

"My personal life is none of your concern," said Mycroft with cold detachment, but Greg saw that he was hurt by these words, though he did his best to hide it. In Greg’s opinion, this insecurity didn’t comply with Mycroft’s image. More than that, this uncalled-for insult outraged Greg.

"That’s nonsense!"

Two pair of eyes locked at him, and Greg tensed, pinned to his place by this sharp look like a butterfly on a pin.

"Go away," said Mycroft at last, ignoring Greg’s outburst.

"Yeah, go away," the guy smirked at Greg with faked nonchalance.

Greg should have taken this chance and flee, but he didn’t want to leave Mycroft alone with this insolent guy. His features were distorted with a grimace he made, but there was something elusive in his face and figure, that… Greg couldn’t grasp it, but one thing he could tell for sure: the guy suited Mycroft. Apparently, they had a shared past which gave him the right to poke his nose into Mycroft’s affairs. As for Mycroft, he evidently it deemed necessary to take care of his wayward… friend? Greg felt a pang of jealousy he had no right to.

He asked Mycroft, "Should I leave?"

"You shall not tell my guest what to do," answered Mycroft, but he was addressing the guy, not Greg.

Greg, who had stood up from the chair, sat again, showing that he was not going to leave.

"Guest?" the guy laughed.

"You are not the one to judge moral qualities", Mycroft said.

"Guest," confirmed Greg and went on defiantly, "Who, by the way, came invited, unlike you."

The guy blinked and a second later looked at Greg with a squeamish horror. 

"Gregory, this is not what you think," Mycroft hurriedly tried to clear up the misunderstanding. "Sherlock is my brother."

"Oh".

"He is also an idiot. Congratulation, you got the full package," said Sherlock to his brother.

"But you are nothing alike," Greg tried to justify himself.

"Thank God", the brothers answered in chorus and exchanged surprisingly similar smirks. For a while they stared at each other and held a silent, but expressive conversation. Greg watched them, fascinated with their rapidly changing expressions: their eyebrows raised and furrowed, lips tightened, and noses wrinkled.

"I’m not going to bother you further," Sherlock suddenly said fairly friendly to Greg and stood.

"Don’t go. I am sure your room is already prepared, I will ask them to bring you dinner."

The change in their mood was so sudden that Greg wished he could read thoughts and find out how and what kind of agreement they had reached.

"I have my own home."

"The kennel you sometimes sleep in can hardly be called a home."

"But at least it’s mine."

* * *

"Who is he?" asked Sherlock when Mycroft saw him to the door.

"That is none of your business."

"He looks like an escort, but he isn’t…" mused Sherlock aloud. "You don’t know each other well enough to engage in role plays, although there is a mutual sexual tension between you..."

"There no any sexual tension. I just want to help him," Mycroft interrupted him abruptly.

Sherlock snorted, "It’s so like you to forcefully help everyone."

"He needs my help."

"Perhaps," Sherlock shrugged. "One doesn’t exclude the other. Fuck him. After all, you brought him here exactly for that and now you are trying to make excuses to refuse him, though he likes you. Or, perhaps, you do it just because of that. You can sleep only with those who are afraid of or need something of you?"

Mycroft ground his teeth and said, "James will drive you home." Then he turned and went to his study where he kept some cash.

"Handle your own personal life and stop meddling with mine!" said Sherlock to his back.

* * *

"I decided that it would be easier than writing you a cheque," said Mycroft, handing Greg a roll of bills.

Greg was clearly confused, and Mycroft had to put the money into his hand.

"He was wrong, you know."

Mycroft didn’t understand at first what Greg meant and then said, "Don’t mind Sherlock. It had nothing to do with you, rather with our old feud."

"I’m talking about you… Anyone would want to be with you."

"Greg," Mycroft sighed, "I’ve already told you that you don’t have to do that. This is your money, and…"

"Screw the money! If you don’t like me, just say that!"

Muttering something under his nose, Greg hurriedly started putting on his shoes.

Mycroft frowned.

"Wait, you mean…"

"Yes, I mean that I’d like to spend the night with you", said Greg, not daring to look at Mycroft who took a step towards him, but stopped at arm length, still doubting that he had heard right. What if he misunderstood? Greg’s sneaker slipped from his hand and dropped at the floor with a thud, and Greg came to Mycroft, resolving his doubts.

Mycroft stood motionless, letting Greg take the initiative, opening to the awkward and artless movements of lips and tongue. Some time later Greg broke the kiss, not knowing what to do next.

"Have you ever been with a man?" asked Mycroft.

Greg shook his hand.

"With a woman?" 

Greg looked away. Mycroft took his chin in his hand and carefully turned Greg’s face, making him look at him.

"You want me to be your first, like this?"

There was a stubborn resolution in Greg’s eyes, and he took Mycroft’s hand, pulled it down and put it on his groin. The cock under Mycroft’s hand was hard.

"Cast iron argument", agreed Mycroft, feeling that anticipation seized him and squashed his pangs of conscience. With every second it was harder and harder to constrain himself, but Mycroft kept on asking Greg, "What exactly do you want?"

"Everything. You. I don’t know. Anything."

Such a disarmingly honest and promising answer made Mycroft swallow instinctively.

"I mean, we can limit it to petting. There is no need to do something… special."

"No, I want special."

"All right," Mycroft tried to sound calm and confident. He remembered his first time with a partner he didn’t love and who didn’t care about him. It was almost a humiliating act which gave Mycroft nothing but regret and disappointment. He couldn’t promise Greg that everything would be perfect or that he wouldn’t regret one day that he hadn’t waited for someone special, but at least be could make this night pleasant and worth remembering.

Greg started unbuttoning Mycroft’s shirt as if he was afraid that Mycroft would change his mind. His fingers were shaking, and the buttons weren’t cooperating. Greg cursed, and Mycroft captured his hand.

"Not here, let’s go to the bedroom."

In the bedroom, a typically Victorian one, Mycroft switched on a wall lamp, and in its dim light an old-fashioned bed with a canopy could be seen. Sherlock never missed a chance to mock this canopy, and Mycroft also understood its absurdity, but at the same time appreciated it for thus he could shut himself off from the world because his bedroom, just like his whole life, was under the surveillance of the security services. He got used to living under the constant watch of security cameras, but not sleeping under it. It was ironic that Big Brother, as he was called behind his back, was himself under surveillance. That could be a good idea for a new dystopian novel – God watches you, but who watches God?

Clearly the bed impressed Greg because he was staring at it from the doorway and not entering the bedroom

"Nice room."

The room whose interior hadn’t changed for a century and a half could hardly be called nice, but Mycroft appreciated Greg’s efforts to be polite.

"According to the family legend, a couple of countess and a princess lost their virginity in it."

"What about you?"

"You will stand in this line right after the countess," Mycroft dodged the direct answer.

"I hope we won’t have to show a bloodied bed sheet in the morning?"

"You don’t have to worry, I will cut my finger and soil the bed sheet as it is done in all traditional English families," promised Mycroft, and Greg smiled, visibly relaxing.

Humor always was a good foreplay.

A few seconds later Mycroft was slowly unbuttoning Greg’s shirt, caressing naked skin with his lips, and Greg was gasping and moaning loudly, almost involuntarily and not at all artificially as the pros did. Mycroft didn’t know what was more arousing, the feel of naked skin under his lips or thosemoans.

He opened Greg’s flies, pushed his hand inside and… froze.

"Damn, I forgot," giggled Greg.

Flabbergasted Mycroft stared at the most ridiculous briefs he had even seen – blue, with red "S" in a bright yellow inverted triangle. This "S", wet from the pre-cum, seemed to be alive and twisting around Greg’s cock.

"What’s that?" groaned Mycroft.

"See… two weeks ago I was at the con… do you know what a convention is?"

"National French convention?"

"No, English comic con. That doesn’t matter." He wriggled out of Mycroft’s arms, left the bed and with some effort pulled off his jeans and briefs. Then he took off his socks and shirt and, completely naked, came back to Mycroft, who was sitting at the edge of the bed.

"Are you even of age?" uttered Mycroft, enthralled by the view right in front his eyes. Greg’s cock, the outlines of which he had just admired, was now a few inches from his face. It was surrounded by black curls and was bobbing with each of Greg’s movements, making Mycroft salivate.

"I’m twenty one. Does that give me the right to have sex with you or will I have to beg? Judging by your look, I won’t."

Mycroft put his hands on Greg’s thighs, pulled him closer and licked the head, tasting leaking pre-cum, and then, with one swift move, took the cock in his mouth, burying his nose into the curls.

"Fuck!" Greg grasped Mycroft’s shoulders and suddenly shouted, "Wait!"

Mycroft pulled away and looked guiltily at Greg.

"Sorry, I shouldn’t have…"

Greg shook his head.

"What then?" asked Mycroft.

"I’m gonna come!"

"Ah, this." Mycroft smiled and resumed his task, but Greg started to pull away.

"I told you I wanted everything. The real thing!"

"You are too aroused and will not last long, but if you are so impatient…" Mycroft reached the bedside table and took a bottle of lube from the top drawer.

Then he squeezed some lube onto his fingers and slid them along the crack of Gregory’s ass, trying to get inside, but Gregory immediately tensed. He stood in front of Mycroft, holding his breath and staring at him with wide eyes.

"Relax."

Mycroft was looking Gregory in the eyes, trying to encourage and calm him down, and at the same time was gently stroking his back and hips. When Mycroft tried again to put a finger inside Gregory, he felt those tight muscles relax, letting him in.

"That’s it, good."

His probing finger slid further, caressing and exploring. Mycroft gave Gregory some time to get used to the new sensations and then swallowed his cock down at once and touched a sensitive spot inside. Gregory came, arching like a taut bow, and fell, limp and sated, into Mycroft’s arms.

Mycroft laid him down on the bed and started kissing him unhurriedly – his closed eyes, elegant eyebrows, thin bridge of the nose, dimple on the chin, and lips stretched in a satisfied smile.

"It’s so strange to taste my own flavour in your mouth," said Greg, opening one eye and licking a white drop off of Mycroft’s cheek. "And here too. You give a fantastic blowjob."

"So you do have some experience."

"No."

"Then how can you tell that it was a fantastic blowjob?"

"I’m simply sure of it."

"You are biased, but I am still glad to hear that. Now, haven’t you changed your mind? Still ready to go on?"

* * *

"Fuck!"

He was in Heaven. 

Mycroft was still dressed, and his look only made Greg lose his mind. He thought that from now on he wouldn’t be able to look at white crisp cuffs and collars without a hard-on.

What he wanted to do most at the moment was to run his hand though Mycroft’s hair! Or just put his hand on his nape. Greg’s friends said that you shouldn’t grab girl’s hair when she was giving you a blowjob. That was rude and meant that next time you wouldn’t get any. Did it also work for a man giving you a blowjob? Could you grab him by the shoulders like Greg did, leaving bruises?

"Wait!

Yes, Greg wanted to get the real thing. He was a bit afraid, but still wanted it, with Mycroft only. With unbelievably marvelous Mycroft, who looked at Greg with tenderness and understanding, didn’t hurry him up, didn’t insist on anything and was waiting for him to get ready. Under his look Greg’s fears gradually melted away.

He was willing to let Mycroft do anything to him that he wanted. No, that wasn’t exactly right: he was willing to do anything so that that Mycroft didn’t stop. Greg didn’t know what he wanted more – to buck his hips forward, shoving his cock deeper into Mycroft’s throat, or to snap them backward, impaling himself onto Mycroft’s insistent fingers. But Mycroft managed once again to guess his desires – yes, like that, everything at once…

Then Greg’s head got light and empty, and he couldn’t move, talk or even think.

Mycroft’s kisses were slightly bitter and tasted like cum. So he wasn’t disgusted to swallow it then? To taste your own cum out of curiosity was one thing--Greg did it once and it wasn’t repulsive--but to taste another man’s cum… Greg wondered what Mycroft’s cum tasted like.

"You give a fantastic blowjob."

And it was really, really fantastic. Greg didn’t need experience to understand it.

"Haven’t you changed your mind? Still ready to go on?"

Of course he hadn’t changed his mind! He was ready. Theoretically. It was a pity that Mycroft just gave him money for nothing, otherwise Greg would have an excuse to stay here for longer, "working off" ten thousand quid. Then he would go to casino and gamble it away so that he could come back.

Whether he was ready or not physically, was another question. Would he be able to get it up so soon after the first time? He’d die of shame, if he couldn’t… Mycroft bit his nipple lightly and licked it, soothing pleasant pain. Apparently, he was a master of tricks that were so good that they should have been illegal.

Greg groaned and realized that his panic was premature – there wouldn’t be any shame.

Now the fact that Mycroft was still dressed seemed to be strange and very, very wrong, and Greg promptly said so, "It’s not fair to be naked alone. Bit unsettling, to tell the truth."

To his surprise, Mycroft stilled for a second and pulled away when Greg tried to take off his shirt.

"You could be disappointed."

There was just a warning in his impassive, well-trained voice, but his smile betrayed his hesitance. For the second time during the evening Greg couldn’t understand why this gorgeous man was so insecure.

Greg couldn’t help but chuckle and said sincerely, "I find you more than attractive."

Mycroft kept on staring at him inquisitively.

"Are you trying to hypnotize me or read my rambling thoughts?" asked Greg. "They all are wicked."

"You have got strange preferences," Mycroft answered softly and started undressing.

His fair smooth skin was dotted with freckles. Greg didn’t expect to see bodybuilder muscles under the posh shirt, and there were none. Were Mycroft’s body, warm and pliant, a piece of art, it would have been painted with soft smooth strokes, and it was a reflection of his character – calm, delicate, and vulnerable. Greg had spent the whole evening feeling either like a fool, or a loser, who could not attract any worthy man, and Mycroft’s vulnerability changed everything. It made an unattainable ideal more of a close and comprehensible man, whom Greg wanted to have by his side and not only look at and admire from afar.

Greg stroked a naked chest with reddish hair and whispered, because it was easier to say what he could no longer keep unsaid, "I… it seems…"

Mycroft sucked in his stomach and stiffened, trying to seem more athletic, but he didn’t know that his imperfection only made him more tempting for Greg.

"I…"

Words stuck in Greg’s throat, and he shook his head and hid his face into Mycroft’s shoulder. What could he say? He couldn’t possibly confess he had fallen in love. For the first time in his life. With a man twice his age whom he had met only today.

"What is it? Tell me," said Mycroft anxiously.

"I’m ready."

Greg solemnly promised himself that he wouldn’t miss any movement, any word, any sensation or feeling. At first he stuck to this promise, but Mycroft made him forget everything. He was doing something incredible to Greg, and it was impossible to say how exactly and in what order he was working his magic with his tongue, fingers or cock to drive Greg mad. One minute he was gently and slowly caressing Greg, until his eyes closed from pure bliss, and then suddenly did something naughty, and Greg arched as if from electric shock. Mycroft kept on bringing Greg to the brink of ecstasy, but always stopped at the last second and immediately started torturing him anew with languid fondling and petting, quenching a bit of Greg’s desperate desire only to kindle it again and again. He was teasing, nipping and nuzzling Greg all over, playing his body like a true maestro handling a precious instrument. He let Greg sink into a warm sea of tender pleasure and then threw him into burning flames of unadulterated desire, making him writhe under him and beg for more. When Greg could no longer bear it, he grabbed Mycroft and pulled him closer, holding him tight. Mycroft tried to draw back, but Greg didn’t let him go. Struggling to keep Mycroft as close as possible, Greg didn’t make out his words. Only a few seconds later he managed to hear what Mycroft was saying.

"Greg, listen to me! Breathe! Do you hear me? Take a deep breath!"

Greg nodded and followed his instructions. Only then he understood that he had stopped breathing when Mycroft finally had entered him fully. Greg moved his hips and moaned.

"Not so fast," said Mycroft, looking at him with wide darkened eyes. "We have plenty of time for everything."

* * *

Mycroft looked at his watch – it was fifteen minutes to five. He didn’t want to get up, but if he waited until morning, he would have to get rid of his lover with formal phrases and hurry to work. It would be better to work for a few hours and then go back to bed and have a nice morning with Gregory. The right first night, and Mycroft hoped that it was right, required a proper ending.

He kissed the dark head and tried to disentangle from Gregory’s arms, but Gregory momentarily tensed and tightened his embrace.

"I will be back," promised Mycroft.

Gregory lifted his head from the pillow, rubbed his eyes and looked at Mycroft with such adoration that he hastily turned away, embarrassed, as if he had been given something precious that he didn’t deserve. He had already seen this look and wrote it off to hormones and sex. Even weirder things could happen after good sex, especially the first time.

"Sleep."

Gregory mumbled that didn’t want to be alone and hugged Mycroft’s pillow, laying on it. Mycroft’s heart clenched and he felt tempted to forget about work and take the place of this pillow. It was a better prospect than preventing another Eastern conflict.

"Please," asked Gregory, sensing his hesitation, moved up closer to Mycroft and pressed his forehead to his thigh.

"Please, just don’t fall in love…" Mycroft smiled mentally, brushing off tangled fringed from Greg’s eyes and patting his cheek. "What should I do then?"

Gregory’s clothes were scattered across the room, and Mycroft decided to gather them and put them neatly on the bedside table. Mycroft smiled when he saw blue briefs, then folded the jeans and saw something fall out of its pocket. He froze when he saw that it was an earpiece, microphone and GPS tracking device.

Mycroft squeezed his hand and didn’t even feel the pain from the broken equipment. He sank absently into the chair by the window and drew open one curtain. 

Overnight it had started raining again. Mycroft was staring into the darkness through water-streaked glass and felt a heavy lump of shame and disappointment growing in his chest. It was burning and gnawing him from the inside. Of course he knew about these things. Who didn’t in this line of work? It was a typical case, like an old anecdote – a lover turned out to be a spy, sent by enemies.

A day ago Mycroft wouldn’t have believed that someone would still have tried this trick and would have laughed at a fool who fell for it.

He opened his palm and looked at the evidence he’d found. The tracking device clearly was sending information about Greg’s location. Most probably he was to have installed it in the car, but had had no chance to do that. His earpiece was an out-of-date model that secret services no longer used, opting for modern ones which didn’t need a microphone. Or, perhaps, it was here to duplicate unreliable equipment just in case? How surprised Greg and his employers must have been, when their communication was severed because of the jammer!

"Amateurs," thought Mycroft with contempt and turned to the sleeping Greg.

Amateurs indeed, but their boy was very talented. He played innocence, awkwardness and joy so well… 

Mycroft remembered that Greg had gone to the kitchen, saying that he was thirsty after sex, and even brought him water, as if caring for him. How could Mycroft have been so blind?

There were no bugs among Greg’s equipment. Greg knew that his phone had no service here, but was he clever enough to understand that bugs wouldn’t work as well? It was easy to check.

Mycroft took a laptop from a secret cabinet to watch the feeds from the security cameras, stored there automatically. He found the footage he needed, rewound it and watched intently: nothing in the hallway, nothing in the kitchen where Greg only got water… here! 

On the screen Greg entered the library cautiously, looked around and put a small package on a shelf. Then, evidently pleased with himself, he returned to the bedroom, smiling happily on his way back.

Mycroft was willing to applaud Greg, if that was his real name. He had every right to be happy and pleased for he had fooled Mycroft Holmes himself!

He made many mistakes, that’s true, and now Mycroft saw them as well as all the tricks he had fallen for. But the result was astounding. Mycroft almost laughed. In a few hours some youngling gained a measure of his trust that other people had tried to get for years and still hadn’t got. Not only trust – he had made Mycroft believe that he really liked him, that he truly wanted him. He, who always knew that people, who tried to get his friendship, sympathy, cooperation and love, sought only profit and advantage and nothing else.

By the way, Sherlock had tried to warn him, but Mycroft had got angry with him and brushed off his words, for the first time in his life so relaxed that he forgot about his suspiciousness.

Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh for it was really funny. Then he clenched his teeth and waited until his breath evened. It was time to find out for whom Greg was working.

Mycroft opened a drawer and took out a gun.


	3. Part 3

** Part three **

Mycroft hadn’t conducted an interrogation personally for ten years. When he was promoted, he left this task to professionals who could get anyone to talk very fast. They were not sadists who liked beating information out of their "assignments"; they were just indifferent to other people’s pain. To get the information that they wanted was their prime goal, no matter how, and physical pain wasn’t their only method. Beating and torturing were used in addition to other techniques which were more effective and worked even on the strongest people. Sometimes Mycroft watched such interrogations, standing behind mirror glass, unseen, and kept an eye on what was going on. Sometimes he controlled and ordered the interrogations, but all in all preferred to stay away from it.

This time he would have to do everything personally.

He switched on the lights and pulled the blanket from Greg.

"Wake up," he commanded. "Slowly turn around and put your hands behind your head."

"Later, okay?" asked Greg sleepily and hid his head under the pillow.

Ignoring Mycroft completely, he fell asleep and even started snoring.

"I should have called for a team," thought Mycroft.

But he didn’t want to look like a weak pathetic fool, defeated by a mere boy, in his subordinates’ eyes. He felt like this already, and it was more than enough.

Mycroft threw the pillow away, abruptly rolled Greg onto his back and put a knee on his chest. He pressed his gun to Greg’s forehead and with some satisfaction watched as his eyes grew big and round.

"Wow! You have one hell of a fantasy this early…"

"Enough," Mycroft interrupted him. "Your full name?"

"Look, I don’t like rough games, at least not without warning."

He tried to push away the knee from his chest, but Mycroft only pressed harder, and Greg started panting from pressure and pain.

"Stop, I’m not going to fight with you!"

"How presumptuous of you," chuckled Mycroft and cocked the hammer.

"I’m not gonna play along either!"

Mycroft took the gun in his left hand and hit Greg with the right one. Greg didn’t even try to evade the blow and just kept looking at Mycroft, though there was not the expected fear, but hurt and offence in his eyes. His cheek was rapidly turning red.

"You are stupid and ridiculous, though at first you amused me. That’s the only reason I put up with it all this time, but now it’s tiring me."

Greg jolted as if he had been hit again. Good, now it should be easier.

"What’s going on?"

"Does it matter? You’d better ask what will happen to you now," sneered Mycroft, and answered, "I found your earpiece and microphone. The game is over."

"I see." Greg looked away. "Just now or did you know it from the beginning?"

The lump in Mycroft’s chest kept growing so fast, threatening to explode any second, that it physically hurt. What did he expect to hear, denial or excuses? Saying that it was just a misunderstanding?

"Does it matter?" he repeated.

"For me it does."

Mycroft nodded at the jeans with the equipment lying on top of it, and said, "You can be proud. Now tell me your name."

"Gregory Lestrade."

"Who are you?"

Greg was silent for a second, probably trying to make up the right answer.

"A cadet of the College of Policing," he said finally.

Mycroft demonstratively snorted.

"Suppose I believe you. Why did you get into my house?"

Greg looked away again.

"Look at me!"

"Trust me, I didn’t want…" Greg put his hand on Mycroft’s knee and tried to rise.

The second blow left a scratch on his face from Mycroft’s ring.

Then Greg started talking, and with his every word his voice grew more and more detached and impassive, and Mycroft’s dread grew worse. 

"I was drawn into a police investigation, an undercover mission. It can be easily proved. You can contact detective Carline. His number is in my phone. There has been a series of murders in London in the last six months, and all the victims were male prostitutes. We have nothing on this serial killer. We only know that he drives an expensive black car and that all the victims were young, worked on the streets and were in jeans and white shirts. Just like I was yesterday. I was provided with the tracking device, but it didn’t work in your car. I only found out that you were not a killer when I got here and called Carline."

All that Mycroft could pray for at this moment was that Greg would really turn out to be a spy. Because it was better to feel like a sore loser than a bastard.

"Why didn’t you tell me about it in the beginning?"

"Carline told me not to. They’re really afraid of you," Greg laughed with a trace of amusement. "Can’t imagine why…"

"That package," remembered Mycroft. "I saw you hiding it on a security camera tape. What’s in it?"

"Your money. I wasn’t going to take it and wasn’t sure that I’d be able to discreetly leave it in the morning."

"But why did you sleep with me? I don’t understand. They couldn’t have made you!"

"The answer ‘I liked you very much’ doesn’t suit you? Sorry, but I don’t have another. That’s why I didn’t tell you the truth at first. I didn’t want to ruin everything. Then I just couldn’t think at all… Can I leave already or should I wait until you check everything?"

Mycroft realized that he was still pointing a gun at his head, lowered it and stepped away from the bed.

Gregory dressed quickly, paused at the door and said softly, "I’m sorry it happened like this."

"Me too," answered Mycroft.

He’d like to apologize. To beg for forgiveness until Gregory gave it, no matter how long would it take – a week, a month, a year. But he knew that such humiliation of the man who trusted him could not be forgiven. The lump in Mycroft’s chest finally exploded, deafening him and filling every cell in his body with pain and bitterness.

"I didn’t mean anything bad… Please, believe me and try to forgive," added Gregory and left.

Standing at the window Mycroft watched Gregory walking to the gates. Rain immediately soaked his thin shirt, and Greg turned up the collar against the wind. When he was passing the security checkpoint, he lowered his head to hide his cheeks, red from Mycroft’s slaps.

A second later Mycroft answered the call on the internal line, "Yes, James?"

"Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?"

"Of course."

"Hm... your guest is heading for the Tube, should I drive him?"

James had been working for Mycroft for eight years and this was the first time he had witnessed Mycroft having such an inconsiderate attitude towards a lover. But this hardly surprised or outraged him, rather it alerted him.

"Had you seen him in the library tonight?" asked Mycroft.

"Of course. I checked the package, made certain that there was nothing but money in there and decided that it was not my business. I’m sorry if…"

"No, you did everything right. And no, no need to give him a ride."

Gregory wouldn’t agree to accept his help anyway, and it was no more than a ten minute walk to the Tube. Mycroft didn’t know how to atone for what he had done, even partially, and the only thing he could think of was not to subject him to further humiliation, this time in front of the security.

It was strange that the words "believe me and try to forgive" were said by Gregory and not by Mycroft himself. What could Mycroft possibly forgive him for? Then he realized.

He closed his eyes and groaned. 

"Foolish, foolish boy."

Instead of hating his offender, he had decided that everything that had happened was his fault.

It was the last straw. Mycroft slid down the wall and hid his face in his arms.

** Epilogue **

"So, Sherlock is really your brother and you really worry about him?"

"Constantly," confirmed Mycroft and absently glanced at the taped off crime scene and the police officers still working there. 

Trying to find any similarity between the brothers, John looked carefully at the grey-haired man with a receding hairline and winkles standing in front of him.

"That’s right, Sherlock just can’t have a normal, ordinary brother," thought John and with a pang of annoyance noticed an approaching Lestrade, who, most probably, was going to continue interrogating them.

"We’re leaving," John said to him.

"So? Go, I’m not keeping you." Lestrade shrugged, turned to Mycroft, and smiled. "I’m almost finished here."

Mycroft immediately changed: his expression grew softer, his wrinkles were not so deep anymore, and there was no trace of arrogance or smugness left in him. He looked at the DI with such tenderness that John couldn’t have imagined it a moment ago. Then Holmes senior shook his head reproachfully, took off his scarf and wrapped it around Lestrade’s naked neck. Lestrade answered with a guilty look, then stepped aside and tapped on the wing of black Jaguar. The window of the car slid down, and at the sight of Lestrade the driver’s stony face got friendly and pleasant.

"Good old James! How was your vacation?"

"Excellent! I brought back a bottle of good Spanish rum…"

"Oh! You’re on duty today? Then I’m coming to your place when you’re free. Do you know who won today? I was called up in the middle of the second half…"

Mycroft was demonstrating his disapproval of such a familiar chatter, tapping the tip of his stick umbrella on the pavement, but neither his driver, nor Lestrade paid him any attention, and he just had to patiently wait until they finished their conversation.

John, who felt as if he had turned invisible, muttered under his breath, "Well, I’ll just go," and hastily went away. When he came up to Sherlock, he asked, "Are Lestrade and your brother dating?"

"The DI’s second name is Holmes."

John was surprised to hear that. He had never seen a stranger couple than these two. They were complete opposites: Sherlock’s brother was less than handsome, arrogant, and pretentious, while Lestrade with his dashing smile and natural masculinity looked like a cowboy from a Marlboro commercial. Not to mention the considerable age gap.

With Lestrade John could go to the pub on Fridays and talk about football.

With Mycroft John wouldn’t want to ever meet him again, neither in an abandoned warehouse, nor in more normal circumstances. In John’s opinion, anyone who had the luck of meeting Holmes senior should have the same feelings. He tried to imagine how Mycroft had courted Lestrade and shivered. Or was it Lestrade who took the initiative? He could have, that’s for sure but John refused to imagine the details. 

"They don’t suit each other at all."

"I don’t recommend you saying this in front of Lestrade and in front in Mycroft not even thinking about it. Besides, you judge by appearances."

John looked over his shoulder, trying to see the proof of Sherlock’s words.

Lestrade was enthusiastically telling something, waving his hands, and Mycroft was laughing, loudly and sincerely. This laughter was not like the artificial one that John had heard before. Maybe he really had jumped to conclusions? Or was there another version of Mycroft which only his husband had the privilege to see?

"Did you introduce them to each other?"

Sherlock smirked to his thoughts or, perhaps, memories.

"What?" asked John.

"No, I didn’t. They managed by themselves. Fifteen years ago Mycroft picked up Lestrade on a street."

"Picked up?"

"Great beginning, don’t you think? Yes, like a rent-boy. Then he saved him from a serial-killer. It’s a long story," Sherlock waved his hand. "Dinner? There is a good Chinese place down the street…"


End file.
